Shadows Of Yesterday

It had been sheer cowardice, she realised, sticking with James. It had been an intense, addictive relationship from the start, and whenever common sense had shown the slightest sign of putting in an appearance, she had quickly ushered it away because just the thought of never seeing that hard-boned, arrogant, good-looking face again, of never knowing that dry, incisive humour, had terrified her.

She was so lost in her thought that she was unaware of the door opening until he filled the doorway, a tall, looming figure that made her heart skip a beat. For a second, she had to blink because it was almost as if the intensity of her thoughts had managed to conjure him up in front of her, then she began to feel that familiar pounding in her chest, that weak-kneed craving she had whenever he was around, and she had to steel every nerve in her body not to respond to him.

If he was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it. He came into the room, moving with the lithe grace of someone whose body was finery tuned to perfection, and discarded his coat, loosening his tie and tugging at it so that he could undo the top button of his shirt.

‘What,’ he said at last, walking towards her and giving her a long, appraising look, ‘are you doing here? I thought that you would have been safely tucked up in bed in the cottage.’ He bent down, reaching out to support himself on the arms of the chair, and she had a dizzy sensation of drowning.

This was how it always was. He could always somehow reduce her to a mindless, obedient female, but this time it wasn’t going to work, this time she wasn’t going to allow herself to get swept into that vortex of passion that he could generate without even really seeming to try.

‘I knew that you would be back around now,’ Claire muttered, grateful that the study was in virtual darkness. The lamp on the desk was switched on, but that was the only source of light, not enough for him to detect the sharp red colour that had flowed up to her cheeks.

‘So you came to greet me,’ he murmured softly. He reached out and lazily trailed one finger along her neck, under the thin material of her blouse. She had earlier discarded her thick blue jumper, and now she wished desperately that she hadn’t. It would have provided a barrier against those long, sensual fingers. Her body felt as though it had been frozen, and she was hardly aware of him undoing the buttons of her shirt until he slipped his hand under, to caress the full swell of her breast, his thumb moving erotically over the tight bud of her nipple.

She gasped with a mixture of astonishment and unwilling arousal, and her body jerked into life. She pushed his hand away and wriggled frantically to get up, but he was still leaning over her and he coiled his fingers into her hair, forcing her to remain where she was.

His face had hardened at her unexpected reaction, but he was still in control, although he wasn’t pleased, that much was evident from his tight expression. She felt a swift dart of pleasure and very slowly but very pointedly she began to button up her shirt, taking her time and hoping that he couldn’t make out just how nervous she was.

‘Playing games, Claire?’ he asked coolly, straightening up and walking across to the mahogany bar in the corner of the study. He poured himself a drink and turned to face her.

‘No,’ she answered, over-loud. ‘When have I ever played games with you?’ Her hands were still trembling and she sat on them, feeling the photo under her thigh and curling her fingers around it.

‘Then would you care to explain your presence here? It’s been one hell of a day and I don’t relish rounding it off by trying to guess what’s going on in that head of yours.’ He switched on the overhead light and she blinked, dazzled and taken aback. She didn’t want to see that dark, arrogant face any more than she wanted him to see hers, and with the light switched on she felt as though there was nowhere to hide.

‘Perhaps,’ she said, with a hysterical edge to her voice, ‘I came for conversation. Having a relationship with someone does involve the odd bit of conversation, doesn’t it? Or maybe I’m asking for too much from you.’

‘What the hell has got into you?’ he asked grimly. ‘If you’ve decided to come up to the house, at eleven-thirty at night, to subject me to a monologue on the values of conversation, then it can wait. I’m damned tired and I have no intention of indulging this unexpected bout of temper.’ He gulped down the remainder of his drink and then slammed the glass on to the desk, making her jump.

‘I want to talk to you!’ she said in a burst, sliding her eyes away from his because she knew that he had the ability to reduce her to a gibbering wreck if he decided.

‘By all means.’ He began walking towards the door, undoing his shirt.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, springing up and following him, half running to keep up as he strode into the massive hall, then up the winding staircase towards his bedroom.

This is ridiculous, she thought. She had sat there for well over two hours, clutching that wretched photo, armed and prepared for confrontation, and here she was now, racing along behind him like some damned serf while he casually undressed along the way. By the time he arrived at his bedroom door, he was tugging his white shirt out of the waistband of his trousers.

She stopped where she was, by the door, knowing that his bedroom was just about the last place in the world where she should be having a serious conversation. But maybe, she thought with unaccustomed cynicism, that was his ploy. He was damned shrewd, shrewd enough to know that by bringing her here he would immediately have the advantage. Hadn’t he always had the advantage in the bedroom?

He stripped off his shirt and tossed it on the chair by the window, not looking in her direction.

His body had always fascinated her, with its sensual, powerful lines and light bronze colouring so unusual in the English. In one of his rare moments of confidence, he had told her that that had to do with the fact that his mother had been Italian, a wild, dark-haired beauty who had swept his stolid English father off his feet, much to his relatives’ disgust. The only thing English about me, he had assured her, is my name, and she could believe that because there was something untamed about him.

‘I don’t intend,’ he informed her, still without looking in her direction, walking towards the marble en-suite bathroom and dressing-room, ‘to shout to you from the bathroom, so you can either step over that threshold or else whatever you have to say will have to wait until another, more appropriate time.’

He turned on the shower and Claire reluctantly closed the bedroom door behind her and followed him to the dressing-room.

He had turned on the shower and through the open door she could see him getting undressed until he was completely naked. He was making no effort to continue their conversation. Either he was totally incurious about what she had to say or else he was simply waiting until she was forced to break the silence.

Claire took a few steps towards the bathroom but she didn’t enter, and she refused to give in to the temptation to stare at the sleek, strong body, hazy behind the smoked shower-door. She deliberately turned away and stared in the opposite direction. It was a dramatic bedroom, full of deep reds and golds, with an eighteenth-century fourposter bed dominating everything. Quite out of character from the rest of the place, which relied on muted colours to create a feeling of refined good taste. It had always struck her as a fitting background for someone as sensuous as James.

‘Still pretending to be a shrinking violet?’ he whispered from next to her, and she jumped, turning around to stare at him. His hair was damp and he was wearing nothing apart from a thick beige towel wrapped precariously around his waist. The shower had obviously refreshed him, though. He was in a better mood, not as abrupt and biting as when he had first walked into the study.

‘Still set on talking?’ he asked in the same low voice, and he gave her a smile of such devastating charm that the breath caught in her throat. ‘Or should we postpone the conversation in favour of something less cerebral?’ His fingers curled into her hair and he drew her forward, tilting her face up to him. Her lips parted, an unconscious reaction, and he covered them with his own. She felt him harden, aroused, against her and she placed the palms of her hands on his chest and pushed him away. He stepped back, surprised and irritated.

He would be surprised, she thought, and irritated. She had never rejected him before. On the contrary, she had yielded to him like a flower bending in the wind, allowing him to dictate her responses, the eager novice so willing to be taught. The thought of it was enough to make her feel ill.

‘Well,’ he said, turning away and unhitching the towel from his waist, throwing it across a chair then rummaging through the chest of drawers to extract a pair of silk boxer shorts, which he slipped on before turning to her, ‘get it off your chest. You’re standing there like a virgin about to be raped. I don’t think I can stand the suspense of wondering what you have to say that’s of such great importance.’

‘Really?’ Claire said flatly. ‘You don’t look like a man who’s crying of suspense. In fact, you don’t look as though you give a damn about what I have to say.’

That outburst surprised him even more. He folded his arms across his chest and stared at her as though she had taken leave of her senses.

This was the first time that she had ever confronted him. He was not a man to encourage confrontations. There was a steel-hard core to him that made you think twice before you decided to cross him. Now, she was beginning to wish that she had never begun on this route. He was making her nervous, staring at her like that with those dramatic, shuttered green eyes, his arms folded, like someone who was temporarily willing to be indulgent, but not for very long. She licked her lips and told herself that she had nothing to be scared of. She had slept with this man, and besides, she had every right to ask him whatever she chose to. He could hardly kill her just because he didn’t care for the question.

‘Well?’ he prompted silkily. ‘I’m all ears.’

Claire took a deep, steadying breath and stretched out her hand with the photo. ‘I’d like to know about this,’ she said quietly.

He stepped forward and took the picture. He stared at it, then he looked up at her, his eyes as hard as diamonds.

‘And where did you get this?’

‘In the drawer of your study,’ Claire said defiantly. ‘I was doing some artwork at the cottage and my paper supply ran out. I thought that you might have had some foolscap up here. I know you sometimes work from your study, and I didn’t think that you would mind…’ Her voice trailed off and she realised that her courage was beginning to desert her. When she had been angry, it had been easy to face the thought of confronting him, but now she was no longer angry, she was scared stiff, and she had no idea what to say next. Every word was like taking one step further on molten lava.

There was a long, unbroken silence and finally he said in a cold voice, ‘I would have locked that bureau if I had suspected that you would feel free to come up here and rummage through it.’

‘I was not rummaging through it,’ Claire defended hotly. ‘But how else would I have found the paper if I hadn’t…?’

‘Had a good, long look at everything else in there,’ he finished for her and she went scarlet, even though what he was implying was far from the truth. She hadn’t been nosing around. That sort of thing simply wasn’t in her nature.

‘I wasn’t even looking in the drawer,’ she said angrily. ‘I stuck my hand in…’

‘And to and behold, what should it chance upon but this?’ He threw the photo on the bed where it landed face-down.

‘Will you let me finish?’ she asked tightly. ‘Yes, I pulled it out, and yes, I looked at it, of course, I’m only human after all. I thought,’ she added with a trace of sarcasm, ‘that you might want to provide an explanation.’

He was beginning to look dangerously angry, and her eyes widened in apprehension as he took a step towards her.

‘I can’t imagine why you would think any such thing,’ he said in a soft voice that carried a hint of distaste in it. ‘I didn’t realise that I owed you anything, least of all an explanation about something that’s really none of your business.’

That hurt, but she wasn’t going to let him see that. The man in front of her wasn’t the James that she had fallen in love with. This was a stranger, a cold, menacing stranger.

‘We’ve slept together,’ she began, and he gave a bark of laughter.

‘And?’

‘And,’ she stuttered in confusion, ‘and I would have thought, I would have imagined… I mean when two people sleep together, they usually share things…’ As soon as the words were uttered, she realised how ridiculous they sounded. There was nothing cosy about their relationship, it wasn’t an ordinary, run-of-the mill situation where two people shared their bed and their hearts. It was wild, and obsessive, and ultimately, she knew now, fatal, at least for her.

‘I always knew that you were far too young for me,’ he said coolly. ‘Because, my dear Claire, we made love, that does not entitle you to scour my private life.’